Entrance

There’s a door always being opened.
A door without mercy, without emotion.
A door being opened like a thrown bouquet.
With a voice like a short temper.

This door is unlike the ones you’ve at home,
with its vapor hinges, celestial knocker,
ethereal handles, and a peephole the size of the sea.

There’s a god-hand moving through the cosmos,
pulling the door open wide.
Our lives are the little squeaks it makes.
Our beliefs are the airs disturbed.

The door is a word the mouth can’t contain.
A wave of energy. A particle of being. It has no meaning or shared values.
Darkness reflects from its surface.
Light is absorbed. Color is meaningless,
much as language is to an animal.

Rooms inside of rooms inside of rooms,
the door is a poem written by the unseen hand.
That’s not your heart beating wildly, my lover.
It’s the unknown knocking.

Bruce McRae

Archived 07/18/2011